


The Mystery of Hatred

by emmaliza



Series: after whom the dogs do not [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (assumed), (could be any of the three), (implied) - Freeform, (which i would not recommend when you're super pregnant but anyway), A plus N equals J, Angst, Cat has one hundred per cent dealt with shit, Childbirth, F/M, Ghosts, Guilt, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infidelity, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Sexism, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, R plus L equals J, Repression, Resentment, Rough Sex, The Patriarchy Ruins Everything, Visions, pick your own paternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-08-31 17:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8586763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Sequel to Billions of Years in Anonymous Matter.If there's one thing Catelyn Tully always knew, it's that actions have consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I said I would write a sequel, and it might have taken me months, but! *confetti* This one is getting divided into chapters though, because 1) it's getting long (not that BoYiAM wasn't long, but anyway), and 2) to motivate me to actually finish the damn thing.
> 
> Title is, again, from the poem "God Help the Wolf After Whom the Dogs Do Not Bark," by Ted Hughes.

When Edmure was sixteen, he feared he'd gotten a wench pregnant – no, not a wench, but a highborn woman, though Catelyn couldn't remember which family. He had been terrified he was going to have to marry the girl. He had dared not tell father, and so he waited for his sister to visit – she was the only one he could talk to. She was already wed many years, with Robb and Sansa on each arm and Arya at her breast. She had sighed and held her brother close, gently kissing his brow. _“Sweet Edmure,”_ she had said, _“it won't be easy, but you'll have to do the honourable thing. Actions have consequences.”_

It turned out, that action did not. The girl was never pregnant, and ended up married off to someone else entirely not long after – she didn't think a Riverlands family, but another place, the Reach maybe, possibly a Florent?

“I was waiting for you to tell me,” said Ned, smiling as he wound his hands around her oh so slightly curving belly.

She smiled back in her mirror, not turning to face him. “Well you've been so busy,” she said, and thought _Will that be my excuse?_ “I'm sorry Ned, I meant to tell you earlier.”

That first night she visited the bastard's chambers, she meant to tell him then, she meant to throw herself at his feet and beg his forgiveness and tell him she'd gone mad. She meant to tell him it was the boy's fault, that he must have seduced her, somehow, for she would never do such a thing. But Ned had been sick, Cat couldn't tell him then. When he got better, she couldn't tell him then either – if it had been only the one night, perhaps, but no, she kept coming back for more, every time knowing it would destroy her, it would destroy her whole family, if anyone found out. Why did she do it?

“It's fine,” Ned said. “You can't hide a baby forever.” _And you would know,_ although it was not as if Ned tried to hide his bastard. No, he brought the boy back from war like he'd plundered the crown jewels, and simply expected his wife to accept it, without even deigning to tell her where his other son had come from. He'd snapped at her when she dared to ask. Why did he do that?

“Are you pleased, my lord?” she asked, and he chuckled and softly kissed her neck.

“Very,” he said. “I know you always wanted another child.” _I always wanted another child by you,_ she thought (but that wasn't quite true). “Boy or girl?”

“It's a bit early for that, Ned,” she said.

“I meant – which would you prefer?”

She closed her eyes. Another son would be valuable for the succession. They already had three, it was hardly something they had to worry about, but Father always said the more sons the better. She remembers the worry there was when she was only eight, that all the Riverlands might pass to a woman someday. She'd been scared of it, of course she was, when so many thought she was not up to the task. But she'd never said a word, just learned all her lessons, needlepoint and courtesy in one hand, history and diplomacy in the other. She would be the best Lord Paramount she could possibly be. Then Edmure was born, and it had all been for nought.

“Girl,” she said with a smile. “Gods know Arya and Sansa could use someone to balance them out.”

Ned laughed. “They might just spend the next winter fighting for the girl's attention.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But don't tell me you wouldn't like to have three daughters for three sons.”

Ned frowned, perhaps on the edge of correcting her. _Four._ But he did not.

* * *

Maester Luwin seemed relieved when she finally told him it was safe to spread the word. She never asked him to keep it secret, of course, but he was waiting for her to tell Ned and since it took her so long to, he couldn't speak of it.

The children were all thrilled. “Mother, that's wonderful,” said Robb, trying so hard to sound like the proper lordling and not an excited child, but he couldn't help but squeeze her so tight she had to push him away gently, for fear he'd hurt the baby.

(Perhaps that would have been best. Perhaps she should have taken some moon tea and claimed she lost it, then done everything she could to give Ned a trueborn babe instead. That would have spared them all. But she couldn't bring herself to.)

Robb was embarrassed, but his siblings had no such qualms. “I want to touch it!” declared Arya, pressing her little hand against Cat's belly without asking. “I can feel it kicking!”

“Don't be silly, Arya, it's too small, it won't be kicking yet,” said Sansa, and Cat winced – Sansa would have been right, if Cat had told them all as soon as she found out, like she should have. But the baby had been growing for months inside her and was big enough to kick now. She had felt it at night, taunting her.

“Mother, may I?” Looking up at her was little Bran – sweet and kind and polite, her special babe, even after Rickon, and after this one too. She nodded, and he couldn't help but grin as he pressed his hand to the taut skin. “I feel something.”

Sansa pouted, and Arya smirked. Cat looked across the room at her children, the beautiful babes Ned had given her, and how excited they were to have another brother or sister. _Half brother, or half sister. And half niece or nephew, too._

“Lady Stark?”

She spun around and found herself facing Jon Snow. _What are you doing here?!_ she wanted to shout at him, but she'd wanted to shout that at him since the day she'd first seen him, she had learned to repress the urge. So she said nothing as her happy, giggling children fell into an uncomfortable silence, as they always did every time they had to be reminded how much their mother hated their brother. Snow shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, as if he wasn't sure he had the right to be there. _Good,_ she thought, but she knew very well how bitter and petty she sounded. “I just wanted to–”

He cut himself off and looked to the floor, unable to meet her eye – or her children's eyes. Cat's heart raced, and she chewed her lips. _Just wanted to what? What will you tell them?_

After a long moment of silence, she spoke – but not to him. “Robb,” she said. “Why don't you take your brothers and sisters outside? I'll come and let you fuss over me in a bit.”

Her young ones sighed and whined, but Robb did as he was told, taking little Arya's hand in his own as he shepherded them outside. As he went Bran gave her an odd little look, like he was trying to figure out what she could possibly want with Jon.

Once they were gone Snow raised the courage to look up at her again. She had to look away.

“Walk with me,” she said.

* * *

She led him to a secluded corner on one of the balconies, somewhere they could be seen, but wouldn't be unless they drew attention. The thought made her pulse race once more. _He could touch me here, like he did in Ned's solar. Like he did in front of Arya. I'd have to stay very quiet, for if I didn't someone would come running..._

But she was always quiet. She did not let herself stand close enough for him to touch.

He stared at her, and bit his lip before he spoke. It infuriated her. _That's not your habit._ “Do you know if it's–?”

She looked away again. “I can't be sure.” After all, it wasn't as if she ever stopped laying with Ned. She didn't have that excuse. She'd come to her husband's bastard right after he'd fucked her and drifted off to sleep, she'd come smelling of sweat and seed. She'd gotten a thrill out of it, sneaking out like a young girl keeping her illicit tryst away from the watchful eyes of her father. She thinks Snow got a thrill out of it too – he could never have what Lord Stark had, what he would pass to his firstborn son, despite perhaps being his firstborn son. He couldn't have his castle, he couldn't have his bannermen, he couldn't have his land. But he could have his wife. He could have Lady Stark.

(Sometimes she'd thought about having them both, one in her mouth and one in her cunt, or one in her cunt and one in her arse. Two men of Stark punishing her for her sins, for her cruelties and infidelities. For being a bitch, for being a whore.)

But only because Lady Stark let him.

“But do you think–?” She sighed and nodded. Somehow she knew. It was like the gods had told her – the old and the new, she heard the whispers whenever she entered the godswood, and when she prayed in the sept she watched the likeness of the Father and saw his eyes, judging. The gods were punishing her. This much was clear.

“...What are we going to do?”

“Nothing.” Snow seemed surprised by such a sudden answer. “What can we do? Everyone already knows I am with child,” she said. “I doubt anyone will ever realise. You look just like your father.”

It sounded too simple. The gods couldn't let her get away with that, could they?

“Oh.” She looked back at him. In his eyes was something – something sad. Perhaps it had always been there, perhaps she always knew it was there, but she just so desperately did not want to see it.

“It's best if we forget the whole thing,” she said, ignoring that look. “We were fools, Jon Snow. But if we're lucky no-one ever need know. We should just pretend it never happened.”

He swallowed his sadness, and she forced back a flinch of guilt. “Of course, my lady,” he said, resigned. _He should never have expected anything more from me._ She expected him to walk off, but instead he stood there and stared – not at her, exactly, or not the whole of her, but her belly.

“May I–?” he moved his hand, then froze it in mid-air.

She hesitated. She didn't want him to touch her, she didn't want to tempt herself so. But that wasn't what Snow was asking for. He merely wanted to feel his own child kick in its mother's belly, like any father would. She could never let Jon Snow be a true father to the babe – she wasn't sure she would if she could – but didn't he, at least, have the right to that?

And Jon Snow had the right to so little.

She nodded.

He bit his lip again and she stiffened as his hand brushed over her velvet dress. He had his father's hands, wide and square, but their touch – Ned was always careful when she was with child, but he was also confident. He had never once doubted that she, and any babes she bore him, were his. Snow touched her so hesitantly, like he didn't feel he had the right – of course he didn't, if he'd tried to touch her when she was pregnant with one of Ned's children she'd have run for the hills. He touched her so differently to how he'd fucked her – then he wanted to hurt her, to humiliate her, like if he was cruel enough she wouldn't realise how desperately he craved her approval. And yet he always came back for more. She'd taken advantage of him, truly, for he was just a boy and she was a woman grown, she should have known better – perhaps that's why she let him treat her so badly, out of guilt, or at least to convince herself it wasn't all her fault.

His hand moved down, rubbing in small circles at the kicking lump, and she couldn't help but imagine it moving lower still. She knew he couldn't, he wouldn't take such a risk in her condition, but she couldn't help but imagine him having her here and now, the way he always did before – fucking her hard up against the wall, where anyone could walk in on them, whispering filthy things in her ear and pressing her face up against the stone walls to keep her quiet–

She stepped away.

He pulled his hand back like burnt, but he looked saddened, not surprised. “I ought to go attend to my children,” she told him. “And you ought to–”

She stopped. What did Jon Snow do when she wasn't watching him?

An answer didn't spring to mind, but Snow accepted the statement anyway. “Yes, my lady,” he said. He was so pliant to her will – he'd lost what power he had over her, she was sure he knew that, but what she thought he didn't know was that she had lost her power over him too. She expected him to say something more, though she couldn't be sure what, but he didn't, he just turned and left.

She sighed and closed her eyes, laying her hands over her curved stomach. She had more important things to worry about than her husband's bastard's hurt feelings.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa was always the most likely of her children to come to the sept with her. Robb and Bran did also, sometimes, but mostly for her sake, not the Gods'. Arya preferred her father's Gods, and Rickon was still a little too young to think much about it.

She watched as her eldest daughter lit a candle, looked back and smiled at her before placing it in the Mother's hand. Sansa was her splitting image, everyone said so. She had been the first babe Ned had been there to see grow in Cat's belly, to hold while she was still in her swaddling clothes. Cat thinks Ned spoiled her a little, making up for how he'd not been there for Robb's birth, and when he was there he had to divide his attention between the trueborn son and the bastard.

Cat smiled and walked forward, taking her daughter's hand. They shared a look and then bowed their heads to pray.

What did she pray for? She couldn't be sure. Her head felt so muddled sometimes, surely the Gods couldn't understand what she was saying. Sometimes she feared they'd just given up on her, decided her sin was too great for them to deal with, but no, the Gods were not like that. The Mother's Mercy was open to all, always. Perhaps it would be easier for her if it wasn't. Perhaps if there was no way back, she could just give in to what she'd done, and damn the consequences.

Sansa raised her head and her eyes popped open, then she turned to Cat. “I prayed for you, Mother.”

She smiled, even as her heart raced. “Really now?” _Dear Sansa, will you pray for me when I cannot pray for myself?_

“And the baby,” Sansa elaborated. “That the birth will be easy, and you'll both be well.” She chewed her lip with a little worry – of course, Cat was not as young as she once was, closer to the end of her childbearing years than the beginning. She'd always borne Ned's children without much trouble, although _easy_ was hardly the right word for it.

She'd always borne _Ned's_ children without much trouble.

“Thank you, sweetling,” she said, and she couldn't help herself – she let go of Sansa's hand so she could wrap her arms around her daughter and hold her tight. She tried very hard to make it seem like a simple hug, the sort she gave to her children a dozen times a day (the sort Jon Snow always stared after with such envy), not to show the desperation in it.

Over Sansa's shoulder, she looked up into the Mother's eyes. And then the Father's.

* * *

She was hungry – she always had horrible cravings when she was pregnant, although she tried to pretend they weren't so bad. She could have woken one of the servants and ask them to bring her food, as per usual, but she didn't want to be a bother – she knew where the kitchens were.

As she approached, she heard odd sounds – things being knocked about. She sighed. _So which one of them is it this time?_

“Rickon?”

Her youngest spun on his heel. “Mama!” And he ran to her, bounding into her legs so fast he almost knocked her over. On instinct her hands went to her stomach, to the baby.

“What are you doing up?” She tries to sound chiding, but she couldn't manage anything other than exhausted affection. Rickon knew this, and grinned at her.

“Hungry!”

She sighed. “Me too,” and she smiled slightly.

“Oh,” said Rickon. “I'll make you something!”

She blinked in confusion, but he was gone in a second, pulling open every cupboard he could reach – which wasn't many, he was so small. “Darling!” she shouted as pots and pans fell about the place. “You're making a mess!”

He stopped, and stared back at her – he pouted like, well, a child. “Do you not want me to cook for you?”

She sighed. “Rickon, you are six years old. You have no idea how to cook.”

“I can learn!”

Cat tilted her head to the side. Something was going on here. “What is this really about, sweetheart?”

Rickon looked down. He knotted his fingers together, shifting from foot to foot. He looked almost guilty about something.

“...You're not going to love the baby more than me, are you?”

That stopped her dead. _What?_ she wanted to ask. Of course she wouldn't. Rickon was her sweet babe, as all her children were, she wouldn't forget about him as soon as the new baby arrived. She didn't play favourites.

 _Yes you do._ But no more than the usual, no more than any mother – and she loved them all well enough, didn't she? Bran didn't ask these questions when she was carrying Rickon, although maybe he thought them – but Bran wouldn't just ask that, he wouldn't want to be trouble, wouldn't want to seem needy. Yes, she did play favourites.

But why would this child be her favourite? Her bastard born of her husband's bastard, the punishment the Gods inflicted for her sins? Why would she do anything but resent it?

(Maybe the gods won't give her the chance to do either.)

The thought made her flinch. Would she be able to love the babe at all? _I must_ , it was her child, bastard or no. They were an innocent, they deserved a mother's love.

( _If you could have loved an innocent child, this would not have happened._ )

“Of course not, sweetling,” she said, and hoped she did not pause too long.

Seemingly not, because Rickon went right back to grinning. “Oh. Good!” he said. “So do I not have to cook anymore?”

That made her laugh. “No. My stomach's delicate enough as is, I won't push my luck,” she said. Rickon giggled with her. “Why don't you let me make us something instead?”

Of course, Catelyn had had cooks and kitchen maids all her life, she barely knew how to cook better than her six-year-old son. But Rickon didn't know that. He was so young, he still thought his mother could do anything. That she was perfect.

* * *

“Arya!”

The arrow thudded into the target – almost a bullseye – just as her daughter span around to face her. Arya considered the situation, bow still in hand, then grinned cheerfully. “Hello Mother!”

Cat gave a long sigh. “Aren't you supposed to be at lessons with Septa Mordane?”

“...am I?” Arya said, still grinning. Cat raised an eyebrow, and the grin faltered. Arya had been missing at breakfast, and they all assumed she'd gone to get herself in trouble – she told Ned to go get the truth out of Snow, if he and Arya were so close, but he said he had no idea where Arya was. Catelyn didn't believe him, but Ned did, and she wasn't willing to deal with it directly.

Of course, it was absurd to say he had no idea. They all had an idea. This was where Arya was always sneaking off to.

Arya pouted as Cat plucked the bow from her hand. “But look how good I am!” she said, pointing at the target. Indeed, two arrows were buried in the centre, and three more in the circle around it. At eleven years, Arya was already a better archer than any of her sons, or Jon Snow, though not quite as good as Theon Greyjoy. Watching her practice was not like watching little Bran, where you had to smother your laughter as he picked more arrows out of the straw than the target. Cat could hardly fault Arya for being proud.

“Be that as it may, you have somewhere else to be,” Cat said, and Arya only pouted more.

“Why do I even have to read the Seven-Pointed Star though?” she asked. “They're not our gods!”

For some reason, Cat was hurt. _They are my gods._ But no, Arya was right, they were not her gods – Arya was a child of the North, through and through. All Cat's children looked like Tullys, except the one. Did she play favourites?

Arya looked all Stark, like her aunt Lyanna, people said. Of course, Cat had no idea what Lyanna Stark looked like – except, of course, 'like Arya.' People said she was like her Aunt Lyanna too: wild, willful, wolf-like. Ned always indulged Arya's unladylike ways, but Cat could hardly blame him. Perhaps he played favourites too. The Northerners all loved Lyanna Stark, their favourite daughter, who had been kidnapped, raped and murdered by a Southerner. The thought of her living once more delighted them, whether or not it was true.

(That was the story she heard in the North, of course, and the story she heard after Robert won – but before that, in Riverrun during the war, though they tried to hide it – a lot of her lord father's subjects thought he had chosen the wrong side of the war. You should have heard some of the things they called Lyanna Stark.)

Lyanna had been wild, like Arya, and willful, like Arya; like a wolf, like a Stark. And she had died horribly, far from home, and half her family had died with her.

(Brandon died with her.)

“Maybe not,” Cat said, “but they're the gods of most of Westeros, and it will do you good to know about them.” She learned as much as she could in Riverrun, but the Northerners did not write down their traditions like Southerners did, and when she'd come to Winterfell she knew almost nothing about the Starks' faith. “They very likely will be the gods of your husband one day.”

Arya groaned at that. “My future husband,” she sulked. “Will he have to learn about my gods?”

Really, Cat was lucky that Ned understood she wanted to teach their children about the Faith of the Seven. He seemed to want to learn through them – not about the Seven, not about the Faith, but about her. She felt the baby kick in her belly. “Perhaps,” she said, taking Arya's hand. “Come along now.”

Arya sighed, but reluctantly let go of her arrows, giving one last wistful glance to the target. Cat briefly looked up at the sky. They said Lyanna Stark died in a bed of blood – when Cat first heard that, she wanted to ask Ned what it meant, but she'd seen the pain in his eyes whenever anyone mentioned his sister, and thought better of it.

* * *

She spent many of her days while pregnant in the library, trying to bury her fear and guilt in storied romances of the sort Sansa loved. One day, as he reached up on her tiptoes to return a book – the shelves were built for big Northern men, not a Southern lady – she slipped, and almost fell.

Luckily, someone caught her. “Careful, Lady Stark,” came a smiling voice as he got caught in a strong young man's arms. “That dress of yours is lovely, and they don't mop this floor enough, don't want to get it dirty.”

He let go quickly and Cat turned to see Theon Greyjoy smirking at her, as per usual. “Thank you, Theon,” she said politely, then frowned in puzzlement. “What are you doing here?”

She didn't mean anything by it, but he looked a little offended. “I read!” She couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. It had been known to happen, but not very often – Theon was too ironborn, too consumed with fighting and fucking. It was probably why she never truly trusted him, still at heart a Riverlands girl, raised on stories of the Ironborn raiding and raping their way across her land. They were monsters of her childhood imaginings. _If you're not good wives, if you do not appreciate your husbands,_ her septa used to tell her and Lysa, _some Ironborn might come make a saltwife of you. You'll appreciate a good man then._

(Of course, Catelyn was just a girl then. She had no idea what being a saltwife meant.)

But Theon, with his silks and velvets, his jesting smirk and pining eyes, was not what she imagined. “Oh – I'm sorry,” she said with a small, embarrassed smile, and he smiled back, of course he did.

“Don't worry about it, Lady Stark,” he said. “It's not like it happens often.”

“So why today, I wonder?”

Theon chuckled. “Bran,” he said. “Talked me into fetching one of his favourite books for him, since it was on one of the high shelves he wouldn't be able to reach, and if he wouldn't be able to reach anyway there wouldn't be any point in him walking all that way, so...”

Cat laughed at the story. “Well. I'm glad someone is keeping an eye on them all.” She meant it as a jape, but the words somehow thickened in her throat. Sometimes she thought she had too many children – she loved them all, of course, but how much more love could there be in her? She feared she would spread herself too thin, she wouldn't have enough love for any of them – and would she have any love for this one?

(She never had enough love for its father.)

Theon shrugged. “Well, you're a bit busy. Having a baby and all that,” he said, as if he wasn't terribly comfortable discussing the subject. “How is the whelp anyway?”

She chewed her lip. “Well it keeps me up at night kicking, so I think that's a good sign?” _Or perhaps it's not keeping me up, I keep myself up and just feel it there._

“I bet,” said Theon. His hand darted forward – and stopped. “May I?”

 _He wants to touch the baby._ Some part of her told her not to, that he wasn't to be trusted, especially not with her children – the most precious things in the world to her. And yet, Theon had shared a roof with her children for years, and never been any _real_ trouble, except for her vague fears he might lead Robb astray. But apart from that, what reason did she have to mislike him?

She nodded.

His hand rested across her belly, now so swollen she was starting to worry about twins (bearing one bastard could be considered fair, but two?). His touch was surer than Snow's was. The baby kicked. “This one's strong,” Theon grinned. “Bet he'll be a warrior when he grows up.”

Theon was, she noted, the first person who seemed to think the baby would be a boy.

A floorboard creaked.

Theon stepped back, like he'd been caught in the middle of something, and when he moved Cat could see Jon Snow standing in front of them.

It was strange, how Theon's demeanour changed when Snow entered the room – that smirk turned cruel. Cat changed too, turning icy, but she had reason enough to resent her husband's bastard – but why did Theon?

“Snow,” said Theon, drawling over the word. “You want something?”

Jon looked between the two of them, bit his lip. “It's a library, Greyjoy,” he said. “Why do you think I'm here?”

“Then get your book and go,” Theon said smugly. “Lady Stark and I were talking.”

Of course, Theon was proud that Lady Stark at least _talked_ to him. Snow tried to hide his smirk, and could not quite manage it. Catelyn looked away.

“Bran is waiting for you, Theon,” she reminded him. When she looked back at Theon, he looked hurt, but then he shrugged and leaned up to take his book.

As he left, she half-expected Snow to follow him, so they could continue their argument without an eavesdropper. But he just stood there, staring at her. Cat felt like she was being accused of something, and it made her colder, made her want to accuse in turn.

“Were you spying on us?”

Snow frowned. “Was there something to be spying on?”

 _Oh._ She was almost offended, but then again, she couldn't exactly blame Snow for suspecting her. “No.”

She had thought about it. When she started – when she and Snow, well they weren't fucking exactly, but they were being dragged inexorably down that path – she wondered if she shouldn't offer herself to Theon instead. That made more sense, for even if she didn't trust Theon, she never hated him like she did Snow. The boys were almost the same age, they were as easily available, they even looked a little alike. It would have been much the same, but surely Ned could forgive her far more easily if he learned she slept with a handsome young man who happened to be there, and not his own son?

If nothing else, with all his wenches and whores, Theon should have been good at it. Like Brandon–

Snow accepted her answer, which may or may not have been the same thing as believing her. But what did she care what he thought? “He wants to, you know,” he said. “That's why he's so nice to you. Same reason he's nice to any woman. He wants to fuck you.”

She scoffed. “I know.” She'd always known – Theon had wanted her as long as he'd been capable of wanting a woman, before he learned how to conceal it. She couldn't say she was surprised – she didn't want to sound too vain, but she'd been a famous beauty in her youth, and she was always there. She turned and eyed Snow carefully, tilting her head. “Are you jealous?”

Snow looked away, and she expected him to deny it. He always wanted to pretend he didn't care what she thought. “Well he has a mother,” he instead muttered. “What right does he have to pine after you?”

 _Theon hasn't seen his mother in years._ But how could Snow understand – a mother's love is not something you can store when you get it and it will last forever, no, it needs to be replenished every once in awhile.

(She remembers Lysa sobbing into her arms when their mother died, trying to comfort her, trying to tell her it would be alright. _Why?_ Lysa kept asking and Catelyn buried her tears in her sister's hair, she did not say _I don't know._ )

But Snow had never known a mother's love. What would he know about it?

“Well you're hardly one to judge,” she snapped. Snow gave her a long, hard look, then sighed and walked away.

Catelyn turned and looked out the window, running her hands over her belly. She could never have lain with Theon. He was her husband's ward – and his hostage, but his ward first. They had made the Greyjoys a promise, that their son would be safe in their arms as long as they behaved. Theon was, still, little more than a child, and he was not Cat's to use. Even if he would like nothing better.

* * *

She visited the Godswood. She couldn't say why, she rarely did unless she was looking for her husband, or one of her children – she used to back in Riverrun, just to sit and read and think. But once she went North, that felt disrespectful somehow – like the Old Gods would be offended she did not use their woods for their true purpose.

Catelyn had prayed to the Old Gods before, on rare occasion. Once in particular. But it always felt like a lie.

Perhaps she went because she had been struggling to bring herself to the sept – she always felt like the Father was judging her. That was what the Father did. If so, it was a stupid idea – these were her husband's gods, and their carved eyes were as vicious as marble ones.

She was about to just leave when she walked into her son – literally, Robb wasn't looking where he was going, turned a tree and took her by surprise, slammed straight into her. Her hands flew to protect the baby. “Mother!”

“Robb!” She did not know what to say to him, she wasn't prepared to talk. “...What are you doing here?”

He blinked in confusion. “Praying?” Of course, Robb always prayed in the godswood. He would come to the sept with her if she asked, ever the dutiful son, but he always seemed to feel a little guilty about it. Like he was somehow loosening his hold on the north if he prostrated himself before the gods of the south, like he would be less his father's son if he was more his mother's. It hurt her, but she understood. When she had first come to the North, Robb already in her arms, there had been rumours – the new Stark heir looked so much like his mother, and nothing like his father, whereas Ned's bastard was as Stark as any babe had ever been. It was lucky how the Lord and Lady had conceived that one night they had together before he went to war. And didn't they say the Tully girl was close to that uncle of hers, the one who never married?

All trash and nonsense, of course, sick slander spread by those at the North who couldn't bear the thought of their lands passing to a Southerner's son. She thinks Barbrey Dustin started most of them, although she can't prove anything. But Catelyn went to Ned's marriage bed having never lain with another man, not even Brandon.

Of course, she doesn't think Robb ever heard those rumours, they died so quickly – as quickly as the ones about Ashara Dayne. Ned was good at killing rumours.

“Oh. Obviously.” She shook her head at her own obliviousness, and he laughed. “Should I ask what you were praying for, or will that seem just as obvious once you answer?”

“...Probably,” he said, and nodded at her stomach, so full it looked like she was going to burst.

She smiled. Robb was such a good brother, so dutiful, and even before the babe had been born he was looking out for its well-being. _Would he be so concerned if he knew?_ But yes, he would, as concerned as he was with Jon's – Robb never loved his bastard brother any less than his trueborn siblings, and it made Cat feel cruel to try and dissuade him from that, but it terrified her. Robb was Ned's heir, and if Snow wanted to seize Winterfell, to claim that it was his by birthright, it would be Robb he would have to get rid of. Most men would be wary, but Robb, Robb wasn't like that. There was so much love in him. So much trust. The thought that anyone might betray him seemed alien, as if such things couldn't happen in a world where people like Robb Stark exist.

Robb looked like her, but he was just like his father.

“Mother, is everything alright?”

She jumped, snapped out of her reverie by Robb's worried eye. “Hmm? Sorry, I was just – thinking.” Her gaze moved back over her shoulder, to the red eyes of the weirwoods. It felt like she was being judged – tried and sentenced. Terror struck deep in her heart. “Robb?”

“Yes?”

“If – if something happens to me–” She chewed on her lips, knotted her fingers together, and it was like she was twelve again, “–with the baby. If I don't... you'd look after your brothers and sisters, wouldn't you? You'd be there for your father?”

Robb looked bewildered. “Of course,” he said. “But why would anything happen to you?”

She laughed and dug her nails into her palm. It felt like she was going mad, and she didn't want to frighten Robb. “I don't know, I just–” _can't believe the Gods would let me get away with this_ , “I am not as young as I used to be. Some part of me thinks – something will go wrong. It must.”

“ _Mother_ ,” and suddenly she was swept into his arms, holding her close. Robb was careful not to hurt the baby, but he pressed her as tight as he dared. He had grown so tall, taller than her. “Nothing will go wrong, you hear me?” He almost sounded like he was crying. “Come now, you bore five of us without a problem, even Arya and Rickon. How much more trouble could this one possibly be?” Cat laughed at that. _If only you knew._ “You're the toughest woman I've ever met, Mother. You'll be just fine.”

As he finally released her, Cat sighed and nodded. “I know. I'm sorry, I was being silly, just... I suppose I let my fears run away with me.”

Robb smiled as he reached forward, intertwining her hand with his. Long ago, before his brothers and sisters, before Ned had been much more than a stranger she'd spent one night with, before Winterfell was anything more than a dot on a nap, before even Snow (she hopes) – it had just been the two of them. He was not her favourite, exactly, but he was her firstborn and she shared a bond with him she did not with anyone else, not even her other children. Perhaps she spoiled him a little, a habit formed in his first months, with his father off at war and her not knowing if he'd ever return, and knowing the man she could not yet force herself not to wish was Robb's father never would. All the love there was in her, the love she could no longer give Brandon and wasn't ready to give Ned, she poured into Robb.

But Robb never acted spoiled. On the contrary, he'd taken the love she gave him and multiplied it a thousandfold, offered it to anyone who asked, anyone who needed it. Hence why he loved Jon Snow, his bastard brother who had every reason to stab him in the back, so well. _I stabbed you in the back, Robb. If they discover one of my children is a bastard, they'll start to wonder about the rest. Before long they'll think Snow is your father's only heir._

She did not know what part of her had birthed someone so – so good.

“That's alright,” said Robb. “We all do, now and again. You're allowed to not be perfect, sometimes.” Of course, Robb was not Rickon, he was old enough to know his mother was only human. But he could not possibly know the truth of it. “Listen, why don't you walk with me? You don't have to pray here, but... I know the godswood always helps me calm down.”

She hesitated. “It's not – it's not really my place...”

He looked bewildered. “It's the godswood at Winterfell. You are the Lady of Winterfell. How could it possibly not be your place?”

_Oh sweet Robb. You truly do not understand._

She sighed and nodded once more. “Alright then,” and she smiled as she gripped his hand too tight, afraid of what would happen if she let go.

* * *

The baby was growing to seize as much of her time as it did her body as she approached birth, and she could not spend as much time with her other children as she liked. But she tried. Gods, how she tried (for she did not know how much more time she had).

Bran was already tucked into bed when she came to see him. She sighed and smiled. She didn't want to wake him.

An eye cracked open. “Mother?”

She blinked in surprise. “Bran,” she said. “I thought you were asleep.”

The boy yawned and sat upright. “I was trying, but I couldn't quite manage it.”

“Would you like me to have the servants send up some honeyed milk?”

Bran beamed at her. “Thank you, Mother.”

Such a kind, sweet, polite boy. He always had been. “I suppose you wouldn't mind a story either?”

“Well, if you have time,” he said. “Rickon might come demanding attention sometime soon.”

“He does do that,” she said. She sighed once more. “I'm sorry, I just feel like – I haven't been paying you all the attention I should.”

“That's alright,” said Bran. “We understand you're busy. You know, with the baby.”

 _Yes, but that shouldn't exist at all, so I certainly shouldn't be neglecting you for it._ “I know, but I'm going to have to learn,” she said. “I'm going to have to split my attention six ways.”

Bran bit his lip, almost saying something, but stopping himself. _Seven_ , probably. “You don't think you're overdoing this a little?” he asked with a nervous smile. “I mean, I'd like a new brother or sister as much as anyone, but...”

She smiled at the jape, but the humour in her boy's words seemed to fall away as he went on. He chewed his lip, and she tried not to mirror it. “But?”

“I – I don't know, really,” Bran mumbled. “I've just got this – this feeling. Like something's going to go wrong.”

Cat's heart sunk in her chest, down to her stomach where the baby lay. Bran felt it too, the Gods planning their reckoning. Of course, he had no idea why it would happen. How she had brought it upon herself. But he would be so hurt when she was gone, they all would. How could she have been so selfish?

Bran shook his head. “It's – it's silly, I only feel it sometimes. Don't worry about me, Mother.”

She made herself smile at him. “It's alright Bran, I understand.” She reached forward and took his little hand in her own. “Do you want to know a secret?” she asked. “I feel it too.”

He blinked at her, bewildered. Then he frowned, thinking it over, sorting it into what little of life he understood. “Oh,” he said. “Well, I guess it makes sense for you to worry. I mean you do have to birth the thing.”

“Indeed I do.” _Because it is too late now, I can't escape it, I will either be killed by Jon Snow's bastard or I will have to live with it._ “But I've always managed before.”

“Yes, but you did scream enough to keep us up all night last time,” Bran said. She laughed.

“Oh, Rickon? His was one of the easy ones. You should have seen how I screamed birthing you.”

Bran's birth was the hardest of them all, it took two days, and she spent half of it out of her mind with pain. Maester Luwin said she was never truly in danger, but it was hard to remember that with the blood dripping down her legs, Ned clutching her hand so tight she thought he was afraid if he let go, she'd fly away. It was always a risk. Perhaps Bran was right, perhaps she had taken the chance too many times. She had gambled so recklessly. Now it was time to pay.

(When Mother died, Edmure had been so young, not old enough to speak, just a baby. Sometimes Cat almost forgot it was not him Mother died birthing. He was young enough it was easy to think of him as a newborn, and perhaps she would have preferred that – that her mother died to bring her brother into the world, that her Mother died for something. But no, that babe was born dead, and Mother slipped away holding only a tiny corpse.)

He giggled at that, and she was struck by how young he really was. Which was strange, for she'd been there for every one of his ten years, she knew his age better than her own.

Perhaps she always thought her son Brandon should be older – when Robb was born, she had wanted to name him Brandon. It made sense to her with her mind still addled with pain, he was her new husband's older brother, the man who should have been Lord of Winterfell, so why not name the heir to Winterfell after him? But Father talked her out of it. He told her Ned would take it as an insult if his wife named their child after her former betrothed. He might even get suspicious.

Cat never lay with Brandon, but Gods, how she wanted to. She knew his reputation, everyone did, but her septa told her not to worry about it – men did that in their young years, but it would mean nothing once he took a wife. Besides, she would prefer it if he came to their marriage bed knowing what he was doing.

It had bothered Cat, of course it had, knowing the man she was promised to – the man she loved – was giving himself to half the whores in the North. And yet, it had excited her too, the thought that he would come to her bed knowing so much – he could show her things she could never even have dreamt of, things she did not know were possible, but he would be so good at them, so patient and kind, he would teach her how to please him better than any whore ever did. And he would please her in turn, and he would be so _good_ it would almost break her, but Brandon would look after her, like she looked after him – she would be a good wife, and he would be a good husband, and he would never need another woman again.

When Brandon came to visit her at Riverrun she spent the nights with her fingers buried in her cunt, something she knew was itself a sin, but one warding her off a greater one. She had wanted to go to his rooms and tell him to take her like any other woman he'd ever had, that if they were going to marry anyway, what did it matter? But she would not, she could not. She was a good maid, she had learned her lessons from the Seven-Pointed Star, and she would go to her wedding bed a virgin. She had always been patient. So she denied herself and denied herself, but she promised herself also, that once she and Brandon were wed she could have him, every day until one of them died, that he would love her and he would fuck her and he would make love to her and the Gods would reward her patience–

And then he died.

Cat smiled and brushed a lock of hair out of little Bran's face. He really was nothing like Brandon, gentle and demure, he wanted to join the Kingsguard, with their vow of chastity. She could not name her son after Brandon until years had passed, until summer had come, until she loved Ned well enough there was no threat in it anymore. Indeed, it was Ned who had named Bran (who had named all their children but Robb), after his brother, and Rickon, after his father. If he remembered Cat had once loved Brandon, he did not say.

She played favourites, she knew she did. Bran had always been her favourite, and perhaps that was because of Brandon, but he was not the most like him – that would be Rickon, she thought (or maybe Theon Greyjoy). Arya looked like he did, all Stark. Robb was the one who could have been his child, in another world. Bran had only the name. But names meant a lot to her.

“Well, I'm sorry about that,” said Bran. She laughed.

“Don't worry, it was all worth it.” She kissed his brow. “I love you very much. You, and your brothers and sisters.”

Bran bit his lip again, and she felt another twinge of guilt. _Not all of them._

“I know, Mother,” he said, and smiled. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sweetling.” With reluctance, she let go of his hand. She had four more children to visit.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I need to stop assuming I know how many chapters things will be when I start writing them, because it turns out I don't.

Somewhere in the midst of her eighth month, Ned was summoned away to attend to some matter at Last Hearth – something about the wildlings, Cat thought. He was, of course, utterly apologetic. “I'm so sorry, Cat,” he said as he pressed his beard against her cheek. “I promise I'll be back before the baby comes. I promise.”

Cat smiled and nodded and told him she understood, that it wasn't his fault, it couldn't be. He sighed and kissed her brow, and told her he loved her so much. Guilt twisted her insides until every part of her felt out of line – but not the baby, that remained a swollen lump fixed in her guts. Sometimes she thought she would never be rid of it.

He promised he would be back before the baby came. But the baby was coming sooner than he knew.

* * *

That night Cat lay alone in her chambers, or as alone as she could be, the heat for some reason getting to her – she couldn't say why, since she would only be warmer with Ned here, his body surrounding hers, and she had this room because she wanted the warmth. She needed it, and Ned had given it generously.

She remembered her first night in the North, when she and Ned still barely knew one another and she still did not know how to feel seeing another woman's babe in her arms. She remembered how he smiled as she burrowed into the winter furs he'd given her, even though it was not winter, and he'd laughed – rich and pure and throaty – at her pout as she lounged in front of the hearth. In that moment, everything – Jon Snow, his mother, little Robb, Winterfell and the war, even Brandon – had melted away, and she felt like a peasant woman in a folk song, falling in love with a baker or blacksmith. That night, she knew she would be alright. That she and her husband would love one another, despite everything. Despite the bastard.

_Could he love me even now?_

She sighed and stroked her hand across her belly. She felt a wrench of pity for the poor thing. It had not asked for this, it had not asked to be the emblem of her sin. For all it disgusted her, the fruit of Jon Snow's seed stuck inside her, she had wanted it. She had moaned like a whore as Snow spat the words at her, _Father will laugh and smile as your belly swells with my child; he'll never even know how you've cuckolded him. And who better to father the thing than me? The boy he forced under your roof, made you look at every day, your walking humiliation._ Yes, she'd wanted to spite Ned. Ned, the one man she loved more than anyone she hadn't birthed herself. It didn't make sense. _I'll suck the milk from your teats and fuck you again, put another bastard in you and Father will be even happier about this one than the last._

Snow had asked her once, why she did it. What did she tell him? _Y_ _ou look like him when I married him._ Yes, Snow didn't remind her of the Ned she had, the one she had grown to love whilst she raised five children with him (but would not raise the sixth, and might never raise a sixth). He reminded her of the one she first knew she could grow to love, as much as she had his brother.

But why try and recapture that moment? Had Ned not been a good husband, as good a husband as she could ask for, the husband she had imagined him being? In what regard had he failed her?

(Barring the obvious.)

And Snow hated her, as much as she hated him. Every time she let him, he treated her like a whore – like Ned never had. Was that why?

She groaned as the baby kicked at her again. It was a demanding thing, always begging for her attention at the least convenient of moments. She supposed all babies were like that. They were born thinking the whole world existed to serve their needs, and had to be educated out of the idea.

The pulse of the kicks reminded her of the thrust of Snow's hips, that first night he'd given in, thrown her on her back and sheathed himself inside that place in her he had never been. She should have stopped him, she knew that, but she'd wanted it. She'd wanted it so, so badly, she'd done everything she could – not that she had admitted it, even to herself – to make him take it from her. She'd wanted her husband's son's cock, she'd wanted his bastard seed inside her, she'd wanted the roughness and hate, the knock of his bones against her own–

The knock on the door.

She looked up, puzzled. With Ned gone, who would come to her chambers at night? _One of the children, they might have had a nightmare._ “Come in,” she said.

It was not one of the children, or at least, she didn't think it was – Ned might disagree. It was Jon Snow. Of course it was Jon Snow.

She sat up in bed, staring at him, hand still over her belly – she wore her nightgown, but she felt more obscene than any of the times he'd fucked her. She said nothing, and he bowed his head. “My lady.”

Something about his deference infuriated her. For all his morose, neglected act, she knew what he was – he had fucked his own father's wife. He was as lustful and as treacherous as any bastard had ever been, and she had given him the opportunity to prove it (but she was no bastard, and she had proven he was just the same). So what right did he have to come to her chambers, looking so much like the child woken from a nightmare she thought would be knocking on her door, in need of a mother's love?

She should have had a mother's love for him. But she did not.

“Shut the door, Snow.”

He did as he was commanded, and looked toward her with his father's eyes, expecting an order – something he craved as much as he resented. She obliged. “Come here.”

She felt like she was in a trance, having him under her spell like this. She knew she would regret it. _Let me regret it,_ she thought. _Once the baby is born, I might love it too much to regret it. Let me have one more thing I can regret._

(Perhaps if Ned had told her her regretted his infidelity, she could have let it go, she would not have clung to her bitterness so. But how could he, when he clearly loved the child born of it so much?)

Of course, once the baby was born, she feared she may no longer have been able to regret anything.

Snow sat on the edge of the bed gingerly, and she stared him down. He had not had the courage to come to her chambers like she had come to his, not even when Ned was away, not even after that time he buried his fingers in her cunt with Arya in the room. This place was sacred, it was hers and Ned's true marriage bed, not the one they had shared when they did not know each other – not the one they had borne Robb in. In Riverrun, Ned shared a bed with her because he had married her. At Winterfell, Ned had shared a bed with her because he had loved her.

Cat grabbed Jon Snow's hand, tight enough to bruise, and he looked shocked – he probably thought she was going to throw him out. She should have, and so of course she did not. Instead, she pressed his palm against her belly, thin silk shift the only thing keeping skin from naked skin. The baby kicked once more, and she groaned.

“You feel that?” she whispered, looking into his eyes. “That's your child, Jon Snow. Ned's first grandchild. That's what you've done to me – this is my _bastard_.”

Though he tried to hide it, Snow could not fight back the smirk of pride. It drove Cat mad. Mad enough that with her other hand he yanked at his dark hair, pulled him towards her, and smashed his lips on hers.

For all his brooding, Snow fell back into the habit in and instant. He bit her lip and fisted her hair with both hands, pulled so hard her scalp stung. His hands pulled at her dress and tore the silk across her chest, her heaving bosom exposed to his rough hands grabbing hard enough to bruise. He flung her down on her back hard enough she feared he would hurt the baby. She said nothing.

She had wished him dead once, when he wasn't much more than a babe himself – he couldn't have been more than three years. He and Robb had had a fight, some stupid thing three year olds argue about – Robb had wanted to play with one of Jon's toys, Jon refused. _It's mine! Play with yours!_ It had escalated until Jon shoved Robb, and Robb fell upon the ground and grazed his knee.

Jon had been so sorry, of course, even at that age, and Robb – once he was done with the tears it was like it had never happened. They were boys. But it drove Catelyn mad, seeing this bastard hurt her son and get away with it – Ned chalked it up to a simple accident, to boyhood games, the sorts he and his brothers used to play. Catelyn knew he was right, and that only drove her madder. She couldn't bare the thought she would feel like this for the rest of her life, that every time Snow so much as scratched her trueborn babes during their childish games, she would have to think about how one day he might try to kill them. And how Ned would make excuses until it was too late, because he loved his bastard so, as much as any child Cat could give him – maybe more.

It drove her mad enough to pray to the gods to be rid of him, to kill a tiny boy just so she wouldn't have to be so angry anymore.

Then he got sick, and the tiny thing broke her heart, his body swallowed up in blankets and his voice swallowed up in a hideous, wracking cough. She couldn't believe what she had done, that there was this much hate in her, that she had tried to kill this innocent boy out of paranoia and jealousy. She had been carrying Sansa then, and she couldn't bear the thought Ned's children would be born to a woman who had murdered one of them.

That was when she first prayed to the old gods, when she had first felt a true Northwoman, begging the weirwoods for this child's life. She heard a voice on the branches, a woman's voice she thought, and she felt so certain it would not work – the Old Gods hated her for trying to kill their son. She could tell.

And yet as she sat by Snow's bedside, pleading with the Old Gods and New, to any god that would listen, the boy got better. When his fever broke he cried out, tiny and pathetic, _“Mama?_ ”

Cat's heart almost burst for joy, and she leaned over and kissed his brow. _I am here,_ she thought. _I will be your Mama. I swear it, by the Old Gods and the New._

It lasted two days, as Jon Snow fought his way back to the land of the living. It lasted until he was well enough for Robb to come visit, to throw his arms around his brother and sob against his neck, telling him how sorry he was, Jon could have all his toys if he liked, just don't get that sick again, please. Snow clung to his brother, of course he did – he squeezed so tight Cat could see Robb flinch in pain. He squeezed so tight he could have squeezed the life out of Robb. Like that, all the hate and the fear came back.

“Snow,” she groaned as he buried his teeth in her neck, back arching over her swollen belly, prick grinding obscenely into her thigh. His hand claimed her stomach once more as the baby kicked.

“Mine,” he grunted into her skin. “Mine.”

She moaned. Snow had so little of his own, but he had this baby – even if no-one would ever know it, he had passed on the Stark name, he had created a child who could, perhaps, however unlikely it was, be Lord of Winterfell one day. And she, the woman who had denied him so much, gave him that.

Cat grabbed at her dress, buttons bursting off the fabric, but it didn't seem to matter, she wanted to be bare. Snow snarled and seized one breast with his mouth, suckling at the teat, as he reached to open his own breeches. He did not speak so foully as he once did, but he kept saying, as he abused one nipple and then the other, until they spurt with milk, “ _Mine_.”

She pulled him closer. The boy was right, she was his. As long as she had his baby inside her, she was his. Maybe longer. What was she and Ned said when they married? _I am hers, and she is mine._

But Snow was hers in a way Ned could never be – because she could control him. How had this started? Roose Bolton. _Your husband's bastard is very well-behaved._ It had made her curious about the boy she had always tried her best to ignore, made her meet those eyes that stared after her with equal parts longing and fury. It made her wonder what the boy would do to gain her approval – for he did it for her approval, even if he didn't want to admit it.

Snow moved down, kissing her belly gently, reverently – a silent apology to the innocent babe they had dragged into this madness. He was not so gentle once he made it to her cunt. She wasn't gentle either, she grabbed his hair and thrust against his face, almost wishing she had a cock so she could fuck his throat the way he had hers.

He'd done that when he'd wanted her too, used her mouth until she was choking and gagging in a way Ned never could (he'd done his best, but he was so careful not to hurt her). He'd buried his mouth in her cunt and worshipped her like a goddess when she wanted, and he'd inherited every single one of his father's skills (but Ned always treated an act like that as foreplay, he'd spend inside her afterwards, make another child). He'd fucked her arse like she was a whore whose cunt was too used to be worth bothering with anymore (she spent her nights at Riverrun with fingers buried in her cunt, thinking about how Brandon used his whores). He'd let her ride his cock like he was little more than a toy she could plug into herself whenever she liked (Theon Greyjoy stared after her with the same longing eyes, the wish to have a cunt if he couldn't have emerged from it, but Theon already had a mother and Cat was duty-bound to her, and she'd never even met the woman). He had done everything, they had done everything, _she_ had done everything.

She did not hate Ned when he came back to her with another woman's babe in his arms – how could she? She wouldn't get away with it, not with half the North still bitter that this Southerner had stolen their lord, with Barbrey Dustin already slandering little Robb, with whispers of Ashara Dayne's grace and beauty all around her. She had to love Ned, or else she would never be Lady Stark at all. And she did love him. He made her feel like a peasant girl falling in love with the baker or blacksmith – but the peasant girl could have married the butcher or the silversmith or the wineseller or anyone at all.

Catelyn loved Ned. She just wished it had been her choice.

She didn't want Snow to be a Ned who couldn't be. She wanted Snow to be _every_ Ned that couldn't be – and Brandon, and Greyjoy, and Littlefinger, and Jaime Lannister who father once wanted to marry her to, and Jon Arryn her sister's husband, and one of the Martells, Tyrells and one of her lord father's bannermen, and King Robert, and Prince Rhaegar, and her uncle Brynden who Barbrey Dustin wanted to claim was Robb's father, and the King-Beyond-the-Wall, and a visiting sellsword off to war, and some peasant boy she dragged in off the streets just because he had a nice cock, and Ashara Dayne, and whatever whore could make perfect Ned Stark forget his honour. Catelyn wanted Jon Snow to be everyone in the whole world she could have fucked, but didn't.

“Mine,” she moaned as Snow buried his tongue deep inside her, for he was hers, hers in a way her own children could never be. For they were _Ned's_ , all but one of them wore her face but they all wore his name, and Cat wore it too, of course, but it was never really hers, she was just borrowing it. She wore it so she could be recorded as the mother of Ned's children, and what then? Nothing. Winterfell would not remember its lady the way it remembered its lord, it would remember her womb and little else. But it wouldn't remember Snow at all.

She cried out, a great shudder coming over her body as she thought, yes, Snow was _hers_ , for he was the Bastard of Winterfell and she was the Lady of Winterfell, he was _of Winterfell_ and so as long as she lived, as long as she was his father's wife, he was _hers._ He was the only man in the whole world who was truly hers, and she could do whatever she liked with him – she could hate him, she could love him, she could fuck him, she could bear his bastard, she could use him as she saw fit. She had every right.

Catelyn screamed with pleasure as water burst forward from her, and Jon opened his mouth greedily, ready to take whatever she would give him.

She moaned as she came off her peak, Snow still licking at her furiously, and she waited for the trickle to stop.

But it didn't.

After a moment, Snow pulled back, frowning. He looked up and met her eyes over her belly, and her wits returned – it was not her eighth month at all. It was her ninth.

She could not panic.

“Snow,” she said, as calm as she could manage. “Hide that dress under the bed. Do your breeches up, and clean your face.” She took a deep breath as she felt the baby move. _It's here. The gods have come for you._ “Then go fetch Maester Luwin.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

If Luwin wondered why she was already naked when he came to her chambers, he did not ask. He had been one of her first friends here, something of an outsider himself, as Maesters tend to be. He considered moving her down to his quarters, but decided that if the process had already started, it wasn't worth the added stress. Lord and Lady Stark could afford to replace the mattress.

She moaned in pain as a maid wiped her brow. “You're doing very well, Lady Stark,” Luwin said as he prepared his instruments. She smiled at him.

“I know. I have done this before.” But it felt like it hurt more than any time before, but did she think that every time? She couldn't remember. It was hard to remember anything through the pain.

Luwin smiled back at her. Footsteps pounded back and forth outside the door. Luwin had seemed puzzled when Snow took him to Lady Stark's chamber, but he didn't think about it before sending the boy out. Cat almost flinched at the look of pain upon his face – _he is the babe's father, he has the right to be here_ – but said nothing. Snow would not just leave, however, he walked back and forth across the hall, though she doubted anyone but her in the room had noticed, and outside, she thought she heard smaller voices, her children joining in the excitement, eager to have a new sibling.

Catelyn kept her smile up until a contraction came over her. Then she screamed.

* * *

Somewhere in the midst of it – the second hour, the second day, she could not keep track of the time – Cat was getting dizzy. “You're doing well. Everything is fine,” said Luwin, but she thought she saw a worried look upon his face – but was she just imagining it?

A maid walked away to fetch new towels and suddenly, in her place was another young woman, with dark hair and grey eyes. “Arya?” Cat asked, but no, it wasn't Arya. She was years older than Arya, and she looked at Cat with a sort of anger that Arya, for all her wild ways, had never managed.

The woman pressed one hand upon Cat's belly, and then one upon her own. “Stupid,” she said. Cat was almost offended, but she couldn't tell if the woman was talking to her, to Snow, or to herself.

“Your daughter is fine, Lady Stark, don't worry,” said Luwin, and like that the woman was gone.

* * *

She screamed when the baby came. “Push!” shouted the maids, and Cat almost wanted to roll her eyes. _I know. I have done this before._

But it was hard to think much of anything through the pain, as her body shuddered and writhed trying to finally be rid of the creature. She felt shit coming out her arse – that happened when Robb was born, although she did not remember it; Edmure had told her in that way ten year old boys love to talk about disgusting things, and she had been disgusted, and in truth she hadn't believed him. But the Maester told her it was perfectly natural, normal even.

Footsteps and voices by the door got swallowed up in her screams, and then with one last thrust, finally, finally the babe was gone, and her body was her own again.

Then everything went black.

* * *

When she woke, Luwin told her it had been a very smooth birth, it had only taken a couple of hours. It had felt so much longer, longer than Bran's had, and that had taken over a day. Or had she simply forgotten how long Bran's birth felt?

Nothing felt quite real. She had thought she would be dead, deep down, that the gods would punish her – and relieve her. But no, they had found a different punishment – they would make her live with what she'd done. “Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked, because it seemed the thing to ask.

Luwin smiled. “A girl.”

Catelyn offered the gods a silent thank you. She could barely live with herself as was, but she could never if Jon Snow's bastard took Sansa's – the first babe who's birth Ned had been there for, the first babe they had because they loved one another, the first babe who Ned held in her swaddling clothes, looking back between her and Catelyn as if he could not decide which was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen – place in the succession. She had five children, what were the chances of losing all of them, so this one would end up Lady of Winterfell? Very unlikely. _Thank the gods_.

(Part of her feared that would be her punishment. The gods would find a way to take all her trueborn babes from her, and leave her only with her sin and shame to love.)

“Would you like to hold her?”

 _I am not sure. I am scared that when I do, I won't be able to love her – or I'll love her too much, as much as I loved any of them._ But she nodded, for that was the thing to do – when Robb was born, she almost burst out of bed wanting to hold him.

Luwin smiled, and before long a ball of warm flesh in white cotton was passed to her. The girl slept peacefully, and Catelyn Stark clasped her bastard daughter to her breast.

And oh, how Catelyn loved her.

The babe looked so sweet, so peaceful and innocent. Pure, almost, when she had been born in such utter filth. But she knew nothing of that. She knew nothing of anything. She was yet to be made. It was hard to tell with a babe so young, but Cat thought the hair on her head was dark – Ned's hair, Snow's hair, no-one could tell the difference.

Oh, how Catelyn hated her.

The babe's eyes popped open. And Cat's heart raced. _Blue_ , she managed to fool herself at first – and they were blue, in a sense. But they were not Cat's blue, the crisp clear cerulean of the summer skies where she was from. No, they were dark, mysterious, almost as black as the babe's pupils – and they were purple as much as they were blue.

Purple eyes weren't known up north, only in places closer to Dragonstone and the Crownlands: the Stormlands, the Reach and Dorne. Catelyn knew of one famous Dornish beauty, a woman with long dark hair and haunting violet eyes. Ashara Dayne.

The babe began to cry.

Cat jumped in shock, but she shouldn't have – it was a baby, what did she expect? Luwin and the maids chuckled. “Ah, I think someone is ready for her first feed.”

She smiled, and held the little girl to her breast. As the bastard suckled ( _I'll suck the milk from your teats and fuck you again, put another bastard in you and Father will be even happier about this one than the last_ ), Catelyn stared out the window, into the grey Northern sky.

* * *

A raven was set to Last Hearth immediately, of course. Ned made it back within the week, and Cat was standing in the nursery, watching over the babe (she was well enough to be up and about, but they still thought it best not to have her standing in the cold to welcome her husband officially, just in case), when she felt warm arms clasp around her belly, still swollen and sick-looking. “Cat.”

“Ned.” She did not let her voice crack as she heard the joy in his. _Sweet Ned, I love you so much, what have I done?_ “You're back.”

“I am. I'm so sorry I wasn't here Cat, I rode as fast as I could.” He pressed a kiss against her neck, and she sighed. _You weren't here for Robb either. You weren't here for my first babe, or my last._ “This little one was just a bit ahead of schedule, huh?”

The baby let out a happy, gargling cry, but Ned still couldn't see it past Cat's body. The baby had been right on schedule, of course, but no-one knew that but Catelyn, Snow and Maester Luwin. “The maids say its a miracle she's so healthy,” Ned muttered.

“Do they?” Of course they would. As far as the castle knew, the babe had been born a full month early – they probably expected her to die as much as Cat did. “I hadn't heard that.”

“Well, you might have been busy,” chuckled Ned, and then he finally let Cat go. She felt so cold. “So do I get to hold her then?”

She flinched. But what choice did she have? _The Gods have come for you._ With a sigh, she picked her daughter up out of the cradle, and handed her to Ned.

Those indigo eyes looked up into his, the babe beaming with misplaced happiness. Catelyn watched as Ned's face – the father of her children, as glad as the newborn he thought was his daughter – fell away, and the cold, stern mask of Lord Stark rose in its place. She knew her husband too well to fool herself, even for a second, that he did not know.

“Cat...”

She looked away, thinking of those violet eyes he had seen before, the woman whose beauty and grace she'd always feared she could not live up to. But her fidelity, she had never felt threatened by that. Weren't the Dornish meant to be lustful and hot-blooded? But Ashara hadn't–

Cat wanted to cry, to beg forgiveness, but then at the worst possible moment a flicker of spiteful pride swelled into a flame. “You did it to me first, Ned.”

A pause.

“I did.” When Cat looked back at her husband, he wasn't looking at her, or at the baby. He was staring into the grey sky.

Without a word, Lord Stark handed Cat's bastard back to her. And then he walked away. But when Ned opened the door, there was another surprise for them – another bastard, waiting outside.

Cat frowned. _What does he want?_ She watched as Lord Stark's face did not show a speck of warmth. “Snow.”

She winced. Ned never called Jon _Snow_. The boy seemed taken aback by it as well, though not truly surprised, and he struggled to recover enough to speak. “Father–”

“You are no son of mine.”

That stunned Snow silent. Cat just kept staring at the scene, at Ned looking at his son with a coldness even she had never managed. Against her breast, the babe started to cry.

“Shh, shh sweetling,” she said quickly, holding it close to her. She heard footsteps, and looked up to see Ned walking away. Snow's eye caught hers, and she ached for him – she had denied him a mother's love all his life, and now she had robbed him of a father's.

The babe only cried louder, and Cat couldn't bear to look anymore. She turned her back on the boy. As Snow sighed and shut the door, she let out a sob.

* * *

The lords and ladies of the North all came to pay homage to the new Stark child, as they had with every one before (except Robb, of course). Greatjon Umber was the first, of course, simply tagged along as Ned returned open. Cat and Ned smiled and accepted his compliments to the child graciously. _She'll be as gorgeous as you, my lady!_ he declared in that roaring voice of his, as if now he had said it it couldn't be anything but true. _She has your eyes, after all._ Catelyn felt like all her teeth would shatter in her mouth.

(Lady Barbrey Dustin did not come to visit. The gods had shown Cat _some_ mercy.)

Eventually, Roose Bolton made his appearance. He had little interest in the child, looked on it with a smile as fake as Cat's own, but he knew he had to. His was the second most important family in the North, after all, and it would not do to not even make a token appearance.

Cat held the babe to her chest as she watched Lords Stark and Bolton walk together in the stone halls, standing on a balcony. The place echoed enough it wasn't hard to hear him.

“The girl is beautiful, of course,” Roose said, as if he knew he could not possibly say anything else, no matter what the babe looked like. “Though I must say, her eyes surprised me. Forgive my frankness, but... they are not your colour.”

Ned paused. Cat's stomach churned with dread. _Does he know_? It had been him who started the whole thing, _your husband's bastard is very well-behaved_. Perhaps he planned it all, an elaborate scheme to destroy the Starks from within. The Boltons had always hated the Starks, had never been truly loyal, at least, that was what the Northerners all told her.

“My daughter has blue eyes,” said Ned. “Like her mother.”

Cat sighed, and held the babe close. Lord Bolton gave another strange smile. “Very good, my lord.” And the two of them walked out of Cat's earshot.

* * *

She woke in the middle of the night to feed the baby. The servants were puzzled by that, thinking at her age she might prefer the wetnurse, but no, she wanted to love this child as best she could – and besides, with her own bed still ruined from the birth and not yet replace, it was an excuse to rise from Ned's cold chambers, chambers he would no longer keep her warm in. She walked through the halls as her daughter suckled, thinking nothing, letting her feet guide her.

Her feet decided to play a cruel jape on her however, as did her hands, as with her left breast still exposed she found herself knocking on Jon Snow's door.

When he opened it he was bleary-eyed, and she thought she must have woken him up. “Can I come in?” she asked, and wondered why.

He said nothing, but nodded and stood aside. She sat on his bed – the bed she had done so many sinful things in, the bed they had conceived their bastard in – and the babe, finally full, gurgled and let go of her nipple. She blushed, and hurriedly fastened her dress one-handed.

 _What are you doing here?_ she expected Snow to ask, and she did not know how to answer. Some part of her was afraid the answer might be _what was I usually doing here?_ After all, if Ned would not touch her, who else could she go to for it? But she still had a baby in her arms, for gods' sake.

Luckily, Snow asked something else. “What have you named her?”

She hesitated. “I haven't,” she said, eventually. She had never named any of her children, Ned had named them all – except Robb. Her father had named him, said it would be a gesture of loyalty to the new king (although Robert wasn't king yet). Of course, there was no reason for her father to name this one. And Ned wouldn't. So she would have to do it herself. Snow looked surprised, but nodded along, and did not think to suggest anything.

Cat sighed and looked down into the girl's eyes. Indigo. Blue, but also purple, and never her blue – not the crisp, clear cerulean of the summer sky, and nothing like a–

“River.”

She looked up at Snow, to see if it met with his approval. A pause, and then he chuckled. That made her frown. _What is so funny?_

“A bastard name.”

She blinked. Indeed it was, or at least, close enough. And yet, she felt no urge to change it, and merely shrugged.

His laugh transformed into a puzzled frown, then he sighed, and walked over to sit on the bed beside her. He did not dare sit close enough to touch, but the babe reached for him with a happy gurgle. Snow laughed, and generously offered his finger, letting his daughter wrap her tiny fist around it. Cat looked into his eyes, and saw he loved her _so_ much. It had been a year since they began their affair, she realised, and he no longer looked like the Ned she had married – he looked like the Ned who had returned after the war, the one she'd been married to for a year and who she had borne children and she barely knew, the one who came back with another woman's child in his arms and looked at it with such love, it was terrifying. He looked like the Ned she had handed Robb to, Robb with his red hair and blue eyes, Robb who looked nothing like his father, and yet Ned still looked at him like he was the most beautiful child ever born. Except for Jon.

As she clasped her father's finger, River looked up at Cat. She smiled. And as best she could, Cat smiled back.

 


End file.
